


Vassal States

by savagescribbles (timeandcelery)



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Established Relationship, Femdom, For Science!, Light Dom/sub, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:42:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeandcelery/pseuds/savagescribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agatha has her boys right where she wants them, and this experiment promises to be an interesting one indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vassal States

**Author's Note:**

> Kinkmeme fill (original thread [here](http://girlgeniuskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/492.html?thread=492#cmt492)). Prompt was "Agatha/Gil/Tarvek three-way; Agatha tops everyone." This isn't identical to the kinkmeme version, though, as I've edited it quite a bit.
> 
> Apologies and thanks go to Mox and Ink, who, without fail, listen to me complain about how I have no idea what I'm doing every time I try to write smut.

When Gil figures it out, his eyes go wide as saucers. 

He can't look away from her and he doesn’t move, and Agatha almost giggles at the desperate slackjawed face he’s making. Almost, but not quite. Giggling now would jeopardize the experiment, and she can’t have that. So instead she makes a soft eager sound as she leans upward, and when she presses herself against the length of his body, she drowns his gasp against her mouth in a single sweep from lips to jawline. 

She pulls away just as quickly, though, and when she does he stares at her again, breathing harder than before. “Agatha.” She likes it: likes the stunned, wide-eyed face she’s made him make, likes how he half-chokes her name, likes the curve of his just-barely open mouth and the flex of his fingers and the undone buttons of his shirt. But he has to wait, and he will wait, and when she turns from Gil to him, Tarvek doesn’t miss a beat. 

A sliver of a smile flits over his face before he steps forward and bows his head and sinks to his knees to pool at her feet in one fluid movement. _Smoke Knight_ , she reminds herself.

Gil’s eyes flick away from her to Tarvek and back. “Come here,” she says, and he does, moving slow and staccato until she nods and rests her hand along his neck. She can feel his pulse against her palm, but she doesn’t look at him, even though she wants to -- wants to kiss him again and pin him to the bed and sink her teeth into the jut of his lower lip. She looks down instead.

“My lady,” says Tarvek, his voice little more than breath. He reaches for her free hand, cradling it in his, letting his eyelids sweep down as he runs his thumb over her palm. Looking at her through his lashes, he murmurs in the same low voice, “May I?”

She nods, and he lifts her hand to his mouth, his eyes -- huge and soft and coffee-dark, just so slightly hooded now, and all for her -- still fixed on hers. He doesn’t look away when he kisses the pads of her fingers, the knuckles, one by one; when he brushes his lips over the lines of her palm, the base of her thumb, when she feels his tongue against the pulse point of her wrist for the briefest flicker of a moment. Every movement, every touch, every kiss is light enough to be utterly, giddily maddening.

As she gives a long shaky exhale, he lifts his head from her hand. Without letting it go, he leans forward to rest his forehead against her side. “What do you want?” He nudges the curve of her hip with his nose. 

“Stand up.” She squeezes his hand, and as he rises to his feet she turns to her other subject. Her hand is still on his neck. “Gil?”

He stirs from where he’s been watching Tarvek and slides his arms around Agatha’s waist. “Yes?” He gives a wry little grin. “Uh, yes, ‘my lady’?”

“Oh, shut up with that.” She cuffs his shoulder and leans toward him, tipping her face back. He ducks away from her mouth, though, and cracks a soft smile, kissing along the top of her head, the shell of her ear, the soft hollow behind it. For a long moment he stays still, nuzzling his nose against her skin. “Mmm. Much better.”

“Heh. Glad of that.” She feels his deep satisfied chuckle more than she hears it, distracted by the sight in front of her: Tarvek, bent at the waist, bangs half in his face, shucking off boots and socks and coat onto one of the armchairs. The angle, and the narrow cut of his trousers, provide a very nice view, but it doesn’t last. He turns back to them, fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves, as Gil takes advantage of Agatha’s distraction to nip at her earlobe. When she gives a surprised, pleased little “Ah!”, he mouths it again, sucking a little as he pulls her tighter toward him.

Tarvek watches them for a moment, half-smiling, before stepping forward. His bare feet sink into the carpet, and he halts a step away from them, looking at Agatha with a question on his face. She holds out a hand, and he takes it, twining his fingers with hers and raising his other hand to lay against the curve of her cheek. He runs his thumb along her cheekbone, and she smiles as he moves to press against her front. Behind her, Gil shifts to kiss down her neck, wrapping his arms tighter around her waist, and she shuts her eyes and waits for Tarvek. 

“Wait.” The hand on her cheek moves, and he slides her glasses off, folding them and tucking them in her free hand. His lashes sweep down, and he presses her fingers down over them. “There.” He reaches back up and brushes her hair from her face, tucking a loose strand behind the ear that isn’t currently obstructed by the proximity of an exceptionally snuggly Gilgamesh. Then he stops, not quite cupping her cheek. “My lady. May I?”

She bites her lip. “You don’t have to call me that either, you know.”

Tarvek goes pink. “I’d...I’d like to, though. If that’s all right?”

Letting herself relax into Gil’s shoulder -- and pointedly ignoring his snicker -- she smiles, feeling a little red-faced herself. “Yes. Now, come here.”

“Yes, my lady,” he says, and he closes the gap between them. 

His kiss is soft at first, but soon it’s consuming, overwhelming, as if he’s melting against her, seeking something in the joining of their lips. She relishes it, weightless for now and breathless too, thinking of nothing but Tarvek’s mouth on hers and Gil’s on her throat, pressed against her pulse and moving downward, of Gil’s solid warmth against her back, holding her, and of Tarvek against her front. They are chest to chest, thigh to thigh, and when she presses a knee forward, between his, he gasps into her mouth. The jolt it sends through her curls hot and eager in her belly, and she bears a little forward and catches his lower lip between hers and sucks. 

Tarvek makes a strangled sound against her mouth, only encouraging her, and behind them Gil groans and buries his face in the bare crook of her shoulder. He’s not kissing, not now, but almost gasping, his breath hot and quick and harsher against the skin below her locket.

She reaches up and covers Tarvek’s hand with her own, and then she bites his lip, brief and sharp and needing, before she breaks away from his mouth entirely. He staggers back half a step and stares down at her, his lips swollen and parted, his eyes wider, darker, hungrier, his hair beginning to spill from its ponytail. She desperately, achingly wants to kiss him again, and again, and again, until they’re both dizzy and starry-eyed, half-dressed and tangled hopelessly in each other’s limbs, but not now. 

Not quite yet.

“Gil,” she murmurs, tipping her head back. “Gil...”

“What?” he asks, mouth still against her shoulder.

She turns her head, kisses his neck. “Let go of me.”

“Oh. Um.” He does, albeit reluctantly, mouthing at her collarbone before unwrapping himself from her torso. “Why?”

She drops Tarvek’s hand and steps away from him, too, looking back at both of them. It’s as if the warm tightness inside her gives a tug, and, shivering a little, she puts her mind to the task at hand, planting her hands on her hips. “You have too many clothes on,” she informs them.

Gil runs a hand through his own hair. “So do y--” 

Tarvek cuts him off with a sidelong look. 

“Later,” she says. It’s a promise, but there’s also a _now_ in it. Gil, slightly sheepish, shrugs and drops his eyes from her and kicks off his boots. 

He looks slightly petulant as he starts undoing his shirt, and Tarvek, who is making quick work of his own buttons, laughs. “Shut up and take your pants off, Gil.”

“You shut up.” He undoes his trousers anyway and trips a bit stepping out of them. He really does have nice legs, Agatha thinks absently as she stares at him in shirt and drawers.

“It’s what the lady wants.” Tarvek gives a little sniff that would probably have been dignified if he had been wearing a shirt. “Isn’t it, Agatha?”

“Hmmm.” She makes them wait a little, tapping a finger on her lip, while she conjures up a handful of equally intriguing possibilities for the pair of half-naked men at her command. The experiment is versatile indeed. “I think the lady would prefer you to help each other out, actually.”

They both seem to ponder this for a moment, and then Gil grins and rubs his hands together. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“Oh,” says Tarvek, and then “Ack!” when Gil tackles him to the bed. He ends up flat on his back as Gil follows the lady’s instructions, even, as he moves back up, plucking Tarvek’s pince-nez off his nose.

Tarvek, naked and mock-scowling, folds his arms over his chest. “That’s cheating.”

“No, it’s not.” He props himself up on his elbows, then, relenting a little, rises to his hands and knees to stare down at Tarvek with a lopsided grin. "Agatha, is it cheating?”

She sits on the edge of the bed. “No.”

“Agatha, this cretin ambushed my trousers! Are you just going to let that stand?”

She stretches out, laying down next to them to watch. Why is Gil still wearing his shirt? “Yes,” she says decisively. “Yes, I am.”

“It’s what the lady wants.” Gil sounds quite pleased with himself.

“Well, then, I’ll just have to pay you back in kind, won’t I?” Tarvek says, and Agatha feels herself shiver a bit. Before Gil can respond he finds himself rolled onto his back, and it’s Tarvek’s turn to grin. “What was that you were saying?”

“ _That’s_ cheating.”

“Yes.” Tarvek slides up to straddle Gil’s hips and leans in close to speak almost, but not quite, against his mouth. “It is.” 

Gil’s whine of protest shoots straight through Agatha, and the little laugh that Tarvek gives in response only sends more heat to pool deep inside her. She wants to kiss them both at once, to surround them completely, to move and moan and ride out the storm together, and she wants it now. But watching Tarvek bear down against the helpless roll of Gil’s hips, watching his fingers slip slowly from button to button as he strips Gil of his remaining clothing, is enthralling all on its own. She wants to keep watching them, too, to see the way they fit together--she doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of that.

But right now, there’s something else that needs to be taken care of, and she slides off the bed to start working on the clasps of her bodice.

Tarvek spots her and stops what he’s doing, sitting back on Gil’s thighs. Gil, scrambling to sit up a bit more, looks over too and stops dead. “Agatha...”

“What?” she asks.

“...Do you want some help, too?”

She grins and drops her hands away. “I’d love it.”

They clamber off the bed, all limbs for a moment, and she holds her arms out for them as they approach her.

This time round, they change positions, with Tarvek wrapping himself around her back to kiss her hair and slide his hands up to the top clasps of her bodice, and with Gil at her front, pulling her to him until they are flush together. Even through her clothes, they are hot against her, around her.

Gil dips his head and kisses her, finally, and she reaches up and digs her hands into his hair to kiss him back, angling herself upward and humming against his mouth as he tips his head and runs both of his broad, warm hands down her sides. 

Now she’s really wearing too many clothes, and they both seem to agree rather vehemently. Tarvek starts, achingly slow, on the clasps of her bodice as Gil’s hands slip farther to work at the buttons of her trousers. He pushes them down around her hips before Tarvek has gotten more than halfway down her stomach, and there his hands settle for a moment. Rubbing his thumbs in circles just above the waistband of her drawers, he leans into the kiss, deepening it, opening his mouth to her and making muffled noises of his own. She tugs at his hair again, and his hands slide down and back, between her and Tarvek, until she moans against his mouth and rocks between them for a moment, leaning her weight into Tarvek as she runs her hands down Gil’s back. She digs her fingers into the curves and planes of muscle, splaying them out against his skin, running her hands down until he gasps and surges against her.

“Ngh.” He breaks away from her lips to pepper kisses over her cheeks, her chin, her ear, her neck, his hands still on her hips, pushing at her clothes, and she gasps as Tarvek’s hands slide up suddenly, beneath her shirt, pushing it down to her shoulders, and she lets go of Gil for a moment until it slips to the floor. There’s a warm chuckle against her neck and Tarvek’s fingertips beneath the back of her brassiere before that’s gone, too, and she steps out of trousers and drawers before pulling both of them down with her onto the bed. 

The landing leaves much to be desired. They manage to disentangle themselves eventually, only after navigating a rather awkward relocation to something closer to the center of the bed. Agatha pushes her hair out of her face and rolls onto her stomach, intercepting Tarvek midway. He looks up at her, eyes wide and dark and mouth agape, and his expression starts a fizzy feeling in her stomach and a fresh shiver down her spine. Still with that look on his face, he reaches up and runs a hand from her cheek to her neck to her shoulder to her breast, and smiles. She ducks her head down to brush her mouth over his neck, his collarbone, his chest, nuzzling the hollow where his neck meets his shoulder with her nose, delighting at the way he groans when she catches his nipple with her tongue.

She moves back up after that, more slowly than she’d come down, and as she moves she feels Gil’s hand at the small of her back and then his lips on the blade of her shoulder, kissing down toward her spine. He stops, suddenly, and asks, “Agatha?”

“Mmh?”

His breath is warm against her skin. “Agatha, what do you want?”

Tarvek shifts. “Mm, he’s right. What next, my lady?”

She sits back a little, reluctant to lose the warmth of Tarvek against her and the wonderful heat of his skin on hers. Gil moves back with her, though, and she can look down at Tarvek from here to watch the sweep of his lashes and the swollen curve of his lower lip and the rise and fall of his pale chest.

At the same time as she leans back into Gil, letting him take her weight, she reaches out and runs a hand down Tarvek’s abdomen, coming to rest just above his hip, and she decides. “I want to watch you,” she says.

“Watch us what?”

Gil snorts. “What do you think, Sturmvoraus?”

Tarvek folds his arms behind his head and raises his eyebrows at Gil. “I wanted to know if she wanted specifics. _Someone_ has to be the gentleman here.”

Gil sits up straighter in feigned indignation. “How dare you! I’m totally a gentleman!” He wraps his arms around Agatha and leans his chin on her shoulder. She can almost feel him pouting. “Agatha, tell him I’m a gentleman.”

Rolling her eyes, she wriggles free of Gil and settles herself, cross-legged, next to both of them. “You’re both idiots,” she informs them. “ _And_ gentlemen. And I want to watch you together.”

Tarvek nods. Gil looks over at him. They don’t move.

“Now.”

They scuffle again, fighting for the top, and the flail of limbs resolves with Tarvek crouched above Gil, pinning his arms at his sides. Gil kicks at his ankle and then flops, overdramatically, into the pillows. “Alright, Sturmvoraus. You win. _This time_.”

“Heh.” Tarvek shifts to loom over him more effectively, and then, moving fast and fluid, he sinks down until they’re pressed together. He braces himself on his elbows above Gil.

“Like this?” he calls over to Agatha. She nods, steepling her fingers, and watches.

Tarvek gasps, a quick sharp sound, when Gil presses a thigh upward. Not to be outdone, Tarvek bears down; Gil’s eyes widen, and he starts to move slowly, methodically against him. There’s just enough restraint to turn it into a dare. For his part, Gil tries not to react, tensing more and more and grabbing Tarvek’s sides with unwonted force. 

It’s still a show they’re putting on for her, and she knows that, but she can’t tear her eyes away from them as they start to slip and surge and stumble out of their show and into something of their own, something powerful and full of a desperate energy that threatens to consume them both as they dissolve into a storm of skin and limbs and mouth, moving faster and faster still. It shoots through Agatha, every movement, every sound, to settle hot between her legs, and she watches. By now they’re panting and gasping, crashing desperately into each other, rolling, rising, breaking like waves on each other’s bodies, and she’s transfixed, burning, full of a pooling pulsing heat and the sound of her heart in her ears.

Exactly as the lady wanted.

Tarvek rolls to his side and takes Gil with him, still clutching at his hips. “What are you _doing_?” Gil demands hoarsely.

“Moving.” 

“I was -- enjoying that.”

“Well,” says Tarvek, voice equally ragged, “I think you’ll enjoy this too.” 

And then there’s something between a curse and a squeak from Gil, a noise that makes Agatha want to moan as well, as Tarvek reaches down between them to take Gil in hand. He doesn’t move, though, and Gil writhes desperately against him. “Tarvek, I--” 

“Say please.”

“Gh.”

“Please,” repeats Tarvek.

Gil grits his teeth. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.”

Agatha,” Tarvek says, looking over at her for the first time since she set them to each other, “don’t you think he’s being dreadfully impolite?”

“Fuck--”

“No, Wulfenbach. That’s later.” Tarvek turns back to her, still gripping Gil. “My lady?”

She leans over Gil and kisses Tarvek. It’s soft and hungry and as electrifying as it is brief, and she pulls back with her lips still tingling. “Mmh, he’s right,” she says, one hand still on Tarvek’s face. “Gil, ask nicely.”

“Oh, come on...”

“Not unless you ask,” says Tarvek firmly. “At this rate, Agatha might have to teach you manners later. And we all know you’d _never_ want that, don’t we?”

“Shut up--”

Raising an eyebrow, Tarvek moves as if to release him.

“-- _please_.”

Tarvek relents. 

A little bit, anyway.

Beneath his hands, Gil thrashes, his eyes screwed shut and his fingers digging into the flesh of Tarvek’s sides. Together they are mirrors, they are echoes: Tarvek pale and sharp, Gil dark and blunt, tangled and fighting.

Tarvek does something that Agatha can’t see, and Gil cries out and rolls against him -- only for Tarvek to break away, sitting back again, leaving Gil, gasping and unfinished, to look up at them both as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes are wide, his pupils huge, and it takes him a moment to manage, “So that’s how it’s going to be?”

Tarvek nods. “Afraid so.” Agatha can see him shiver, see the tension building in his frame. His restraint is starting to crumble, even before he presses Gil down hard with a hand on his chest and turns to her. “My lady,” he says, his voice hoarse. The madness in it makes it her turn to shiver. “What should I do with him?”

She finds herself reaching out for him, sliding a hand up beneath what’s left of his ponytail, running her hand up through his loose damp hair and flattening it against the base of his skull. “I think he can wait,” she says. When she nudges him forward, he moves easily with her, turning onto his back and reaching up to slide his hands down her ribcage to her waist.

“No, he can’t,” Gil mumbles, but his heart isn’t in it, and when Agatha looks toward him, he gives her a half-smile before sinking back down into the mattress.

“Yes, he can,” she says, and she pats his shoulder before turning back to Tarvek. 

She’s halfway over him by now, and as she looks down at him, he reaches up to stroke a finger down the side of her face. “Anything you want, my lady.” His lashes sweep down as he looks over her, and she sinks down to take his mouth with hers.

The kiss is slow and searching and full of impossible heat, all the more intense for the gentleness with which he explores her mouth. As she loses herself more and more to it, so does he, and their bodies press together without really moving. It’s all stillness and softness and the heat of his skin on hers. Behind them, Gil gives a little longing moan. She shifts a little, feeling Tarvek press against her in ways that she loves more than she should, and lets one hand slip from his face to reach out for Gil. He closes his hand around hers eagerly, giving it a squeeze, and as she falls back under the hot welcoming spell of Tarvek’s mouth, he rubs circles on her palm with his broad rough thumb.

All at once it’s too much and not enough--she wants more than this, now, and she breaks away from Tarvek’s lips to sprinkle soft little kisses up from the corner of his mouth, her eyes barely open, her whole being electric with need. “Tarvek,” she says against his skin, and then “ _Tarvek_ ,” and he opens his eyes and tightens his hands on her hips.

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “You want--”

She nods before he’s finished speaking, her free hand roaming from his face to his shoulder and down his side, and she watches his eyes widen as she reaches back beneath him, lets her hand linger. “Yes. Now.”

She lets go of Gil, not unreluctantly, and they shift again, moving together. Agatha guides Tarvek’s motions, moving to the side until she’s nearly sitting up amongst the pillows and he’s on his knees in front of her, his breathing ragged and his face gone pink. He doesn’t look at her, though, just leans forward and kisses his way down from shoulder to chest, stomach to hip.

Ah.

“My lady,” he murmurs against her skin. “May I?”

She’s gone breathless all of a sudden and she can hear her pulse thudding in her ears as she digs her hand into his hair. Somewhere that she isn’t really aware of, Gil’s hand has come to rest on her forearm.

“May I?” Tarvek asks again, dropping his head so that his lips brush the top of her thigh as he speaks. It shoots through her, white-hot, to stop her breath in her chest and burst behind her eyes. “Please, Agatha?”

She can’t find her voice, but she nods and nods, yes, yes, yes, and he tilts his head just enough so she can see his smile and kisses her skin again before he settles between her legs. Sinking her teeth into her lip, Agatha watches him as he moves, as his hands settle on the outsides of her thighs to nudge them apart, as his red head drops, and then his mouth finds her and she gives a little strangled cry and digs her fingers into the sheets and rolls out the involuntary jerk of her hips.

Tarvek seems to notice. His grip on her hips grows tighter, and the pace of his mouth grows slower yet as she tries to hold herself still against the growing pressure of his attentions, the slow hot build of his tongue against her. There’s music of need and pleasure rising in her head, Madness born of the pulse between her legs, and her mind’s gone fuzzy and she can’t think but he’s keeping her just short of the edge. When she can’t stop herself any longer and a note half-escapes her mouth, he hums back, and she starts to Heterodyne in earnest, the music filling her head and her ears and spilling into the air around her, and she can feel Tarvek move beneath her as it spreads. Tarvek and music, music and Tarvek, and he presses her back into the pillows, rubbing circles against her skin where his thumb rests against her hip, speeding up. She screws her eyes shut, desperate, and then opens them again as a hand flits across her face. “Gil, what are you--”

His kiss is pleading, desperate, and short, and he pulls away from her mouth before she can cup his jaw or pull him to her by the hair or catch his lip between hers. He mumbles something against her cheek, and then he drops down and buries his face between her breasts.

“Gil!” she says, pulling on his hair until he lifts his head to look back at her, and then “Gh!” as Tarvek does something that makes her feel like she’s swallowed stars, and then she doesn’t say anything intelligible at all. She is, for a moment, aware of everything -- every touch, every breath, every infinitesimal movement -- and then lights burst behind her eyes, and she is consumed. 

She comes to herself slumped back in the bed. Somewhere around her middle, one of them shifts, and an arm wraps around her stomach. 

“Agatha?”

The voice is Tarvek’s, and she opens one eye and gives him a smile that must be slightly dazed. She’s still shaky, still hypersensitive to every movement and brush of skin on skin, and even as she basks in her afterglow there’s still Madness flickering at the corners of her mind. For his part, he kisses her stomach and then moves, pushing himself back until he can kneel. He wipes his mouth along the back of his hand; it’s a deliberate motion and one that, for all its purpose, only makes him look even more debauched. Sitting up, she reaches out, strokes a thumb across his cheek.

The bed shifts, and next to them, Gil moves forward and closes one hand around Agatha’s outstretched arm. Other than that, he doesn’t touch, just looks at them both, and they look back. There is desperation clouding his face and tension in his frame, in the set of his shoulders and the knot of his brows. His eyes are locked on hers as he speaks. “ _Please._ ”

She looks over at Tarvek for a moment before she moves up onto her knees and leans in toward Gil, pressing against his chest, bending so that her mouth is against his ear. He moans a little, breath grazing her neck, and surges against her, enough so she can feel just how eager he is.

No amount of desperation, though, is going to change her plan, and that knowledge sends a little thrill of power through her. She splays a hand across his back to feel him tense against her. “Tarvek first,” she murmurs, quietly enough that only Gil can hear. “Take care of him.”

“But--”

She bites his earlobe. He almost squeaks. “Take _care_ of him,” she says again, and kisses the spot she’s just hurt before whispering again. “Then. I promise. But not before.”

He looks frustrated, pained almost, but this time, he doesn’t beg, and she slides her hand down his back to dig into his hip before she pushes him away. “Go on,” she says.

“Well, what are you going to do?”

She settles, cross-legged, off to his side. “Watch.”

So she does. She watches as they slide together from knee to shoulder, watches as they roll and press with Gil’s hand trapped between their bodies, watches as they come apart, as Gil bends his head but doesn’t stay. Tarvek hisses, twists, scrapes his nails up Gil’s back and gets a bite on his hip for his trouble, and they fall together again.

The struggle doesn’t last, though. They both want too much too fast for that; they’re both too lost in each other for the goading to keep going now, and it doesn’t take long for Gil to take his instructions to heart. Restraint, he seems to decide, is overrated, and in one swift movement he pins Tarvek’s hips to the bed and takes him into his mouth.

Tarvek shudders, but the only sound he makes is the breathing he’s failing to keep under control. It grows increasingly harsh, and he digs his hands into the sheets as Gil works faster. Her breathing’s going a bit ragged, too, especially with the faces Tarvek’s making and the way he bites his lip. And then suddenly they move again, and Gil pulls his head away, and in an instant he’s almost lunging forward, leaning in close over Tarvek and wrapping one hand around him. Gil’s hand finds a rough rhythm and he buries his face in the crook of Tarvek’s neck and _bites_ , and then, just like that, Tarvek comes to pieces in his hands.

By the time Tarvek fits himself back together and opens his unfocused eyes, Agatha has curled toward him, nestling her head on his shoulder and running a hand gently down his side to his hip and back up again. He looks wrung-out and beautiful and so happy it’s absurd, and that joy has finally started to look at home on him. It’s as if his body has finally learned how to be happy, even if his mind is still working on it, and Agatha -- and for that matter, Gil too -- will never miss a chance to remind him that he can be. 

Gil clambers back across the bed, wiping his hands off on his own discarded shirt. Tarvek looks a bit startled when Gil moves to clean him, and he jumps before relaxing again. “Is that your _shirt_?” he asks, but his voice is weak and the complaint is more out of principle than disgust. He gets distracted as soon as he’s spoken, though, and while Gil busies himself with the shirt, he touches his own swollen mouth and comes away with a finger trailing red, lip bitten to bleeding. 

“You’re all right?” Agatha asks, sitting up next to him and reaching to touch his cheek.

“Better than,” he says, and he nuzzles her shoulder before giving her a push. “Go on. Someone’s got unfinished business.”

“Are you implying that that isn’t me?” she says, pushing him back before turning to Gil. He has finished with the shirt and is sitting back on his knees, watching them both with an expression that has already crossed well into the territory of ravenous.

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing,” says Tarvek, and his fingers skate along her shoulder blades before he lets her go.

She somehow still manages to take Gil by surprise; she hopes she’ll never stop. It’s his turn now to land flat on his back on the bed, with Agatha pressing up against him and leaning close enough to brush his lips with hers. He moans a little, indistinctly, half her name swallowed by his need. She reaches up to touch his jawline, and then she pulls back and lets her hands slide down his chin, his neck, the blunt lines of his shoulders. They come to rest on the broad planes of his chest, and she stops and stares down at him for a long moment, her weight on her knees on either side of his torso.

He reaches up and cradles her face, just briefly, before dropping both hands to the small of her back. “Well?” he asks. She pinches one of his nipples in response. He grimaces. “Please?”

With a happy sort of hum, she presses an open-mouthed string of kisses to his neck and lifts a hand from his chest to tangle it into the voluminous mess of his hair. She gives his head a tug up, and she overestimates; somewhere behind them, Tarvek muffles a laugh when their foreheads bump together.

“Shut up,” says Gil, but his words don’t have any bite either, and anyway, he’s in no state to be distracted from Agatha for more than a moment. He tilts his head toward her. She takes his hand and brings it between them, and they move together, his hands on her hips, until she’s on him, over him, with one hand pressed flat to his chest. Their eyes don’t leave each other’s faces, and in the few infinite seconds before she starts to move, they try to remember how to breathe.

She rides in a fury, crashing against him as he rolls up to meet her, hands fixed on hips, eyes on eyes. The music fills her mind again, and beneath her, he babbles, more and more, faster and faster, garbled _fuck_ s and _please_ s and _god, Agatha, I love you, you’re perfect, I love you, god_ , and even as she feels him tense, as he’s spread out below her like some debauchery in bronze, even as his gush of starstruck words tumbles over itself to land in the overwhelming well of heat and need that’s building again inside her, he slides a hand between them, and she is gone.

He holds her there until she stops shaking and looks back up to meet the desperation in his eyes, and then they move again, fierce and fast. It doesn’t take long for him to shudder, clutch, and come, choking on her name as the force of it wracks him and shakes them both.

As he tries to catch his breath, she bends in to kiss him and then roll free of him, to his side. She is sore and sweaty and happy, and Gil sinks a bit into the pillows, completely drained, as Tarvek reaches for her. He’s been watching, clearly, and he’s found himself a pair of pajama trousers too.

He runs a thumb over her lower lip and presses a nightshirt into her hands. “Did you enjoy yourself, my lady?” he asks, and he looks exhausted, still, but overjoyed.

She brushes his hair out of his face and, eyes open, kisses him gently. “Very much,” she says.


End file.
